Voldemorts Lament
by FeatherTrinity
Summary: Evangeline: A short songfic drabble about Voldemort, his feelings towards himself and his doubts. After so long it would seem that even the dark lord himself still has a conscience. Takes place around the half blood prince.


**Writer: ****S.L. Evangeline**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, nor The Harry potter series. I also do not own the nightmare before Christmas lyrics despite my high opinions of myself.**

**Song: ****Jacks lament by nightmare before Christmas**

**Notes: ****One, my submissions for our trio's song-fic competition. And two sorry for the shortness and my inadequate grammar. Critiques and comments are appreciated and needed. **

Word count: 618

Name: Voldemort's Lament

A wooden door creaked open, the sound of pitch black boots as dark as the night itself crushing dead leaves and branches; disturbing midnights drowsy slumber. The claw shaped moon cast only enough light to silhouette a flock of wispy clouds that highlighted the void purple sky. The sound abruptly stopped as a shrill wolfs cry erupted, fallowed by the burst of a gun. It was then that the night resumed its vow of eerie silence, the sort of silence that could make even he-who`s-name-should-not-be-spoken hold his heatless breath. Again the sound of crunching earth continued, fallowed by the sound of fabric dragging through the foliage. In stark contrast to the rest of the graveyard scenery was an almost white translucent face, baring every last one of his bulging blue veins. His face was not particularly cruel looking one, but one of a sadistic glee mixed with un-namable restlessness. His sunken beady eyes and missing nose were only two of the physical features that proved he was in no way a normal man, nor a happy one. Lord Voldemort's

ashen hands rested peacefully by the sides of his black death-eater cloak. His left hand clutching the handle of an old steel lantern. His feet dragged him forward at a snail's pace into the deserted graveyard whose tombs were sprinkled throughout the enclosure. Sleep had managed to evade him and he found himself restless and anxious about something, but what? He had no clue. His beetle like eyes caressed the stone etched words as he walked over and in-between graves shamelessly.

_In loving memory of John Black, killed by Tom riddle. Susana Riddle, Petunia Madison. Caroline Lestrange._

The dark lord felt no guilt knowing that each one of them had been killed by him; in fact most of the tombs here were because of him, apart from a few exceptions who had inhabited the earth before he had taken over this territory. A particularly large headstone caught his red swollen eyes. Heaving his lantern onto the edge of the stone memorial he used his right hand to stroke the smooth cold stone, removing access dirt and grime from the lucid inscription

'_In memory of King Bryan XI' _under the name five lines were crudely scratched in.

_Somewhere deep inside of these bones  
>an emptiness began to grow<br>there's something out there, far from my home  
>a longing that I've never known.<br>-King Bryan, the man who never found his purpose._

Voldemort found himself faintly taken back by this inscription and the carven image that illustrated a man dangling from a hangman's noose with a crown propped atop his bloody head. Turning from the stone he strode back through the fog, his mind unable to forget what he had seen.

'_The man who never found a purpose.'_ He-who-shall-not-be-named cleared his throat, beginning to walk faster, weaving through the mangled spindly trees and tomb stones. In his mind he assured himself he had nothing to worry about, after all he was going to live forever as the most powerful wizard in history!

'_And when that's not enough?'_ For a split second his heart leaped in his chest before he swatted the voice away like a pesky fly.

'_It will be enough' He assured himself, _sitting on the edge of his ruined and ink soaked mattress. He watched as the shadows danced across the white washed walls, finding himself even more alert then when he had gotten up in the first place for a stroll around the graveyard. The rhythmic words repeated themselves in his head until gradually sleep crept into his bones and seized him.

'_Somewhere deep inside these bones  
>an emptiness began to grow<em>

_A longing that I've never known'_


End file.
